


Death and Breakfast

by frankie_felony (dextrosinistral)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint Coulson Holiday Exchange, Epistolary, M/M, Near Death Experience, the one where they're oblivious to each other's feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dextrosinistral/pseuds/frankie_felony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing is quite as life-changing as a near death experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death and Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the Clint/Coulson holiday exchange over on LJ. I spent a lot of time worrying that this wouldn't be what my recipient wanted, but [tawg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tawg) encouraged me and betaed for me and basically, xe's my favourite.
> 
> The prompt I wrote this for is: "Basically I am a sucker for fics where they've been working together for a while, and are forced to see one another in a different way and get together because of the process they've been through". The requester also said that xe likes epistolary fic, which I started out doing, but it ended up not quite working out that way.
> 
> I am utterly pleased that my recipient was happy with what I wrote!

_Barton,_  
 _I am very well aware that you would probably prefer to be doing anything other than working for the government, yet here we are. You've signed the paperwork and you're ready to get started. I have high expectations for you. I hope that you don't let us down._  
 _-Agent P. Coulson_

Clint frowned, setting the sheet of paper aside. He hoped that they were all this short, but the weight of the box told him a different story. Why had Coulson been writing these letters, sealing them up, and then never sending them? Clint knew that he'd had high expectations set as soon as he'd picked up the pen, but he'd never thought in a million years that there would be a sealed box with a decade's worth of private documents with his name on them in Coulson's office.

He knew, rationally, that he'd met or exceeded the expectations set before him, except the one about talking back. But then, he'd never been good at staying quiet when the opportunity to put two cents in arose. Getting back to the box, he mused that Coulson must have noted for this to be delivered in the event of his death, since he'd gotten back to his quarters after the invasion to find it sitting on the kitchen counter.

The nagging feeling that he should stop reading and return the box to Coulson crept back to the forefront of his mind. Since they'd learned that Coulson was actually alive, Clint knew he shouldn't have the box. Yet curiosity urged him to continue. He hoped that perhaps Coulson would forgive him for this. He told himself he could say that he'd begun reading them before the news that Coulson was alive came through to everyone... but he felt a pang of guilt even considering that, even if it was marginally true. He'd read this first, short note half a dozen times since he'd opened the box, but he'd read no further yet.

There had to be a few hundred letters in the box, each sealed in an individual envelope, and groups of those sealed in larger envelopes. No way was he going to get through _all_ of them before he had to return the box, but he couldn't help but be curious about the ones left from the large envelope he'd opened. He pulled out the rest and skimmed through them. They were bimonthly updates of Clint's progress from reluctant recruit to one of SHIELD's top field agents. He smiled, putting them all back in the big envelope and sticking it back in the box.

He wanted to read the rest of them; there were some things in the first year's worth of letters that he'd nearly forgotten about. What else was he missing? He debated for a few minutes on whether to open the rest, whether he should contact Coulson to ask about them before he did or if he should just return the box to Coulson's office and pretend he hadn't read a single one of them.

In the end, reading the rest won. They always said that it was easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission, right? He took the box to his living space and sat down on the small couch with a cup of coffee, ready to continue. He had a few days off at this point, part of the deal for saving the world, and he intended to take them.

He picked up the next set of letters and started reading. Their greetings, all penned in Coulson's neat, precise writing, shifted from _Specialist Barton_ to _Agent Barton_ about halfway through the second set. Maybe that was the point where Coulson had decided that Clint was a valuable asset for more than just his aim. He kept reading.

_Agent Barton,_  
 _I am afraid that I do not have the words to adequately express my disappointment. There is no one else who agrees with your decision to bring the Black Widow in instead of fulfilling your objective as instructed. Fury and I have been having words on the matter, and he has finally conceded that there is a small chance that we are right this time. He is the only one who is willing to give your decision even that consideration._  
  
 _I trust your judgment on this. We can't rely on gut feelings in our field, but yours tend to have a decent track record. There is a long road ahead of us. I suspect that if Ms. Romanov gives anyone even the smallest of reasons to believe she has not defected to our side, you will lose what credibility you have earned and possibly much more than just that._

Clint set the letter down and scrubbed at his face. He hadn't known that Coulson had gone to such lengths to defend Clint's decision. He'd been sure he was going to lose everything over it, but ultimately he hadn't, and he and Natasha had become fast friends. It had never occurred to him until well after the fact that Coulson could have gotten it worse than he did, but he'd assumed that Fury thought too much of Coulson to sack him.

Clint had thought that he knew Coulson, at least professionally, but these letters seemed to prove him wrong. He frowned and jogged around his tiny flat in an attempt to shake off his urge to put himself to bed. It seemed to work for the moment, so he sat back down to get through the last couple of letters from this set.

 

The letters slowly shifted from coolly professional to something a bit more personable. It still seemed odd that Coulson would just have a box of letters in his office. Hadn't they all been trained to not leave paper trails if it wasn't official business? And none of these letters were written on the SHIELD letterhead – they were all hand-written. Clint guessed they technically constituted office theft since they probably weren't supposed to exist in the first place.

_Agent Barton—Clint,_  
 _I know you won't see these until I'm no longer the one you answer to, but it wouldn't be professional of me to say this to you directly: Stop putting yourself into situations in the field where you run an increased risk of injury or death. I'm the voice in your ear for a reason. Every time you decide to not listen to an order, I run the risk of losing you as an asset ~~and as something~~..._  
  
 _We can't have another Budapest. Agent Romanov barely avoided serious injury. You nearly lost your life. I won't—I can't—continue allowing you to disregard orders like you did. Only sheer luck got you both out this time. We can't count on that happening again. You can't leave the field without me._

He set the letter down; he had to call Nat, find out if she'd gotten anything like this. He nearly hung up when she answered. "What is it, Clint?"

"Did you get a bunch of letters, too?"

"No. What kind of letters?" Her response was measured, like she was working out the potential threat level.

"I... you know, it's nothing, really. There's this box of letters. From Coulson. That he sealed up and never sent, and I think they were meant to be delivered to me when he died, but now we know he's not dead, and should I even be reading these?"

"How many of them have you read?"

"I don't know, there's like ten years' worth in here, I think I'm about halfway through. He's been writing them since I joined SHIELD."

"If you're already halfway through, you might as well finish, and then go apologise for reading them when you're done. I've got to go." She hung up, leaving Clint to go back to the letters. Where had he stopped?

_... You can't leave the field without me. That's not the agreement we made the last time I told you to stop putting yourself in danger. I don't expect that you will uphold your end, but that's part of what makes you the best at what you do._  
  
 _I only hope that it's not too late by the time you read this._  
 _-Phil Coulson_

Coulson had been _so angry_ about Budapest. Clint still remembered when he'd woken up to see Coulson standing over his bed, two days' worth of stubble on his face. Coulson hadn't yelled at him, which had made Clint feel worse. He'd rather have been chewed out and written up than face his disappointed handler.

Coulson had told Clint that he couldn't get killed as long as Coulson was Clint's handler, and Clint had shouted back – as well as he _could_ shout, at the time – "Yeah, well, I'm not staying in the field without you!" He'd meant that he didn't think anyone else would work with him, but Coulson's expression had changed, softened for a moment before it shuttered again. Clint still didn't know what that had meant.

He hadn’t gone back out in the field for nearly a month after that, his time consumed with physical therapy and mandatory counselling and retraining himself with his bow. When he'd learned that Nat had made a cleaner break and gotten back out on ops before he'd even come out of the medically-induced coma, he had felt relieved: He hadn't gotten anyone killed who wasn't supposed to be dead by the end of the mission anyway.

Clint shook off the memory and opened the next envelope carefully. He felt something changing in the letters, but he didn't know what; not yet, at least. He held onto a small hope that perhaps it would reveal itself.

_Clint,_  
 _I'm glad you've made a full recovery. I have to apologise for my outburst concerning your welfare as ~~my charge~~ an agent. It was unprofessional of me, and I should have been more careful with my words to voice my concerns. I will watch my tongue in the future. This doesn't mean you should continue to behave recklessly._  
  
 _I am concerned about your apparent lack of regard for your own personal safety, and that it may be bleeding over into your regard for the safety of others. As such, I have recommended you see one of our counsellors. I don't expect that you will address the issues concerning yourself but I hope that it will impress upon you the importance of working with a team and following my orders. I tell you when to take a shot for a reason: having a clear line of sight on a target is not sufficient on its own._  
 _-Phil Coulson_

He would deny it forever, but Clint secretly loved that Coulson had called him out on being able to play the SHIELD counsellors like fiddles. He still had to remind himself – in Coulson's stern tone – to not draw the family picture like the books. Even if he _had_ gotten really good at those pictures.

He felt something akin to pride well up in his chest that he'd never fooled his handler. Coulson had always been able to see through him, through the lies and defensive bullshit. It had been the basis for more than just a few fantasies – the man was good at _everything_ , and that made Clint hot. He'd never really thought of Coulson as anything but his handler, but he couldn't help but admire the man's capabilities.

He took a break from reading, distracted by his thoughts. He leaned back against the couch, unbuttoning his trousers and wrapping one hand around his half-hard dick. He closed his eyes and conjured up the image of Coulson, angry like he'd been when Clint had come out of the coma. He wasn't sure why, but it was always his favourite: that he'd done something that made Coulson irrationally angry, and then he'd have to pay the price.

He didn't give in to his desires often; he'd found that the tension was good fuel for getting through a workout on the range, and he'd stuck to that. Sometimes, though, the thrill of breaking his self-imposed rules proved to be too much to resist. He replayed the memory of Coulson telling him he'd almost died and calling him an idiot and, "You can't leave the field until I tell you to!" Something about that _bothered_ him, like an itch he couldn't scratch.

He worked himself to full hardness, a bit rougher than necessary. In his mind, after yelling at him Coulson would then treat him severely, exacting his punishment efficiently and leaving Clint torn between begging for more and begging for mercy. His touches would be slightly wrong, and somehow that made them even more right. Clint rubbed his thumb against his slit and bit back a groan. He had to make it last. There wasn't even a remote chance that this would ever happen, so he had to make as much of it as he could.

Coulson's open, surprised expression came to mind unbidden, and Clint came harder than he thought he ever had before, a strangled cry on his lips.

 

He woke up after a few hours, disoriented. He didn't remember falling asleep, and Christ, he'd made a mess of himself. He staggered to the bathroom and turned on the shower, stripping and dropping his clothes in a pile. He stepped into the shower and sucked in a breath; he had to clear his head before he went back to any of the letters or he'd get distracted again.

Once he was satisfied that he was back in a normal state of mind, he shut off the water. It was late, and he wasn't sure that he should pick back up with the letters just yet. He sprawled across his bed and stared at the ceiling. Sleep didn't come easily though, and after spending two and a half hours glancing at his clock every five minutes he got up and went back to the couch. Surely he could read a few more.

He scanned most of the rest, not finding too much of note – they all still had that same sort of affable, familiar tone that they had taken. Nothing stuck out like Budapest had, but he supposed he hadn't fought with Coulson like he had in the aftermath of that operation since then. Once he'd read the last one, he closed them back up in their envelopes and set the lid on the box. It had to go back in its place.

Clint took the box up to Coulson's office, glad for the early hour. There were only a handful of people even out at this time, most of them security. He imagined that it would be difficult to explain breaking into Coulson's office at four a.m. A cursory glance around him told him that he was in the clear, so he carefully picked the lock. Coulson's office was _weird_ without Coulson in it. He left the box sitting just out of sight behind Coulson's desk and left. He had other places to be.

 

He finally figured out where, exactly, Coulson was by mid-morning. He was going to have to do something about relying so much on Coulson's intel to find people; it didn't work when _Coulson_ was the one he needed to find. He knocked softly on the door before ducking into the room. No one was standing guard, which Clint found surprising, but it made it easier for him to sneak around. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, then went and stood by the edge of the bed. Coulson's eyes were closed, but Clint didn't think he was sleeping. He waited for a moment and cleared his throat. "Hey, Coulson... "

Coulson looked over at Clint and smiled faintly. He looked a little scruffy. "I was wondering when you'd show up. What can I do for you?"

Clint laughed. "Stuck in bed after a near-fatal injury and you're still asking what you can do for someone. Well, at least I know you're not a decoy."

The ghost of a smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. "If you just showed up to make fun of me, you're welcome to walk right back out that door."

"No, I—I think I need to apologise." Clint shifted, not sure where to look. "When I got back to my quarters after the whole invasion thing, you know, when we thought you were dead, there was a box sitting on my kitchen counter. From your office, I think, but it had my name on it, in your handwriting, and I can only guess that it was supposed to be delivered to me upon your death. Because why else would there suddenly be like three hundred letters that you wrote waiting for me? And, well. I started reading them. Then we found out you weren't dead, and I thought I should have stopped, but I didn't, and—"

"Get to the point, Barton." Coulson sounded mildly amused, not annoyed.

"I'm sorry that I invaded your privacy by continuing to read them after I found out you're still alive. But I'm not sorry I read them. There was a lot of good shit I didn't remember. And I never realised how much you were on the line about Nat, too. So, I'm sorry for risking your job, too, but I'm glad that it worked out for all three of us." He took a breath, and before he realised it he was doing a reasonably decent impression of Coulson's disappointed lecturing. "What the hell did you think you were doing, going up against Loki alone?! And why? You can't tell me that it's because you wanted to test out that prototype. What made you decide that it was okay to do the exact thing I would have done if I had been in your situation? You're always yelling at me about doing stupid things in the field, and then you do something that is the exact kind of thing I—" He stopped, it hitting him all at once. "I think I understand why you were so angry about Budapest now."

Coulson snorted. "Do you?"

"You said, 'You can't leave the field until I tell you to.' Back then. I thought you meant that I couldn't get killed on the job; it might mess up your record or something. I didn't think anyone else would work with me if you wouldn't. And then—last week, I was compromised. And you went and did something that I would've done. Because I left the field without your approval. But it's about more than just following orders or trusting your judgment."

Coulson's expression softened, then, changed into something resembling the surprised, open expression that Clint remembered from their argument after Budapest. "I suppose it is."

Clint wasn't sure what to say at this point. He hadn't really thought past the lecture. Frankly, he was surprised that he was still standing by Coulson's bed after that outburst. "It is for me, too," he finally said, slow and quiet. "I mean, I guess it sort of has been for a while. I just never really noticed."

"How shocking," Coulson replied drily. Clint wondered when Coulson had gotten so cheeky, but let it slide.

"Seriously though, what made you decide to try to take out a demigod?"

Coulson didn't say anything for a long enough time that Clint almost thought he was dozing again. "You left the field without me."

Clint's jaw threatened to drop, and he ground his teeth together to keep his mouth shut. "You did that because of me?"

"Yes." Coulson's answer was simple. "I let my personal opinions cloud my judgment. I shouldn't have; I could have gotten everyone killed. I don't regret making that decision, though." He coughed. "Well, aside from my current state."

It took Clint a few minutes to process. "Personal opinions? Wait, you were worried about me... in a non-professional way?"

"That's what I said, Clint," Coulson said, his voice sharp. Even medicated to the gills, he was commanding enough that Clint wanted to take a step back and apologise. The only thing that kept him from doing so was that he was pretty sure that Coulson couldn't actually get out of bed without assistance.

"Was that the first time?" Clint finally asked. He was curious if he'd been in any other situations where he'd missed an emotionally-compromised Coulson.

Coulson didn't meet his eyes for a moment, and then he looked up at Clint. "No, it wasn't. I have had some... markedly unprofessional opinions about you for some time.  For the most part I have successfully compartmentalised those opinions in order to not compromise your safety or status within SHIELD, but there have been a few times when I've handed assignments meant for you to someone else."

"Like that one op we were all surprised went to Jones, and then he got promoted after he got back?"

"Agent Jones had that promotion coming regardless, unless he had made a stupid decision."

"And now you're being evasive. What, did you take a page from my 'how to be really unpopular with your superiors' handbook?" Clint walked to the end of the bed, not sure he could deal with yelling at Coulson again. He heard some rustling behind him but didn't turn around. "Is that why you transferred me to Sitwell after New Mexico? What, does it make your day better to not have to see me?"

He jumped a bit when he felt the hand on his back. Apparently he was wrong, and Coulson _could_ get out of bed unassisted. "Clinton Barton, my unprofessional opinions of you are nothing but positive. I passed that op off because the risk of damage to you was too high." Warm, slightly-chapped lips ghosted over the back of Clint's neck, and he shivered. "When I almost lost you in Budapest, I wasn't just professionally disappointed. It hurt, like little else has in my life. That's why I yelled at you instead of simply writing you up."

Clint turned around slowly and found himself eye-to-eye with Coulson. "You—you shouldn't be out of bed. You'll tear out your stitches," he stammered, trying to wrap his head around the new information.

"Actually, the doctors and nurses are encouraging me to start ambulating as soon as possible, provided I am careful about the stitches," Coulson retorted and pressed his lips to Clint's. He didn't push it, and by the time Clint realised what was going on, it was over. "Will you help me walk up the hall and back?"

"What if I don't want this?" Clint blurted, still stuck on the kiss.

"Then help me get back in bed. I'm sure one of the nurses will come get me up in a couple of hours," Coulson said calmly.

"I mean... this thing, whatever it is, between us." He licked his lips, searching Coulson's face for the answer.

"I will respect your decision." Coulson's gaze was as steady as ever; Clint almost expected him to suddenly be in a suit. "But then why is your hand on my ass?"

Clint felt his face heat. He flexed his fingers, surprised to feel firm muscle beneath them. "I—" He started to pull his hand away, but Coulson's hand on his arm stopped him. Coulson tilted his head slightly, and this time Clint was ready. They exchanged a few short, light kisses before Clint stepped back. "You wanted to go up the hall and back?"

"If you don't mind," Coulson smiled.

Clint moved around so he was on Coulson's left, one arm around his waist, and they started down the hall. If Coulson held onto his IV pole tighter than absolutely necessary, Clint didn't say anything about it. Coulson's nurse looked up from the chart she was writing in as they passed the nurses' station. "Oh, good, you're feeling better than this morning?" she asked, smiling.

Coulson nodded. "Yes, a little."

"Let me know if you need any pain medication when you get back to your room, all right?"

"I will," Coulson assured her.

They slowly made it all the way around the wing, and Clint insisted that Coulson get back to bed so he didn't over-extend himself. Coulson started to say something, but apparently thought better of it and agreed. Clint stopped by the nurses' station on his way out, hoping to get some information from the nurse.

 

Clint was out with the Avengers when Coulson was released from hospital the next weekend. They weren't dealing with an alien invasion this time, at least, but Clint still wanted to strangle whoever had let these mutant things—whatever they had been—escape from their former homes. He was exhausted, bruised, and dirty by the time they got back to base and impatient to get out of medical and take a shower.

He stopped dead when he saw Coulson's office door open, though. If someone was in there while Coulson was still out, he'd take out their teeth. Dirty and exhausted or not, he couldn't stomach the thought of someone going through Coulson's desk. He hadn't even talked to Coulson since the day he'd snuck into hospital to see him. He burst through the door to see—

"I see you've been cleared from medical." Coulson looked up, a bland expression on his face.

"When did you get out? What are you doing here?" Clint blinked a few times. He wasn't quite sure he was actually looking at Coulson sitting behind his desk, business as usual.

"I was released this morning," Coulson said. "I have a lot of work to do."

"Can we... talk?"

Coulson had already gone back to the report he was signing off on. "Do you want to interrupt my time now, or can you come back tomorrow?"

"It's good to see you back, sir," Clint said. "But I kind of meant can we go get a cup of coffee or breakfast or something? I don't think this discussion is appropriate for the workplace."

"Yes, I suppose we can. Tomorrow morning, 0700, at that diner around the corner. If you're late, I'm leaving. Now please, get out of my office; you smell terrible."

"You really know how to keep the romance alive, sir." Clint grinned and made his exit before Coulson could reply.

 

He was pretty sure that it was the best shower he'd ever taken. After he'd finally scrubbed himself clean he just stood under the hot spray until it ran cold, thinking that maybe this time he'd found something that would really work out in the end. Best of all, no one interrupted him. He'd gotten into the habit of leaving his phone (and a handgun) on the bathroom counter after Coulson had lectured him about always being prepared for anything on ops. It had carried over to an 'always' thing, and as a result he didn't often have peaceful showers.

It was on quiet evenings like this that he wished he had a television, or at the very least, something to do that didn't involve work. Usually he and Nat would alternate weekends to pick up food and invade each other's quarters, but since the Chitauri they'd been too busy, and he didn't remember whose turn it was anymore.

There was a knock on his door, and when he opened it Nat walked in with a couple of bags. "I got Thai," she announced, setting the bags down on the coffee table and sitting on the couch. "And beer, since I'm pretty sure you're out."

"You're my hero," Clint laughed, reaching for one of the containers. "I wasn't sure when we'd be doing this again, what with how busy the last month has been."

"This is a Barton-Romanov tradition," she said, "and I think we've earned the night off."

They tucked in, and neither said anything for a few minutes while they ate. Clint started getting suspicious when Nat let him have the last spring roll. "What's your angle?" he asked, taking a sip of his beer.

"What makes you think I have an angle?" Nat deflected.

"You just let me take the last spring roll without a fight."

Natasha looked at him for a moment and took her time to finish her bite before she answered. "I heard you went to see Coulson."

"Who told you that?"

"His nurse," she smirked. "She also said, and I quote, 'Phil and his boyfriend are so cute. How long have they been together?' Do you want to explain that?"

Clint frowned. "How do you even know she was talking about me? That could've been anyone. It does explain why she thought it was so great that I was... how did she put it? That I was 'taking an active role in his care' or something like that. I thought that was a little weird."

"I'm still waiting on your explanation, Clint," Natasha said. "It had occurred to me that something might be going on between you and Coulson, but I didn't want to pry. The signs have been everywhere for years. So what's the story?"

"There's not a story," Clint protested. "I just went and apologized about reading the letters even after I knew he wasn't dead." He frowned. "And I might have yelled at him for almost getting killed. What are you talking about, signs?"

"The op that went to Jones instead of you – he almost didn't make it back, and in case you didn't notice, his 'promotion' means he's stuck behind a desk now, which you would hate," she pointed out. "And you know how you were in a coma for three weeks after Budapest? Coulson sat in with you almost every day until you woke up. And that weird argument you two had, when you yelled at him that you weren't going to stay in the field without him."

"That was because I was – and still am – pretty sure nobody else would work with me."

"Yes, that's what you've told everyone. But remember: I heard that argument. It didn't sound like a discussion between two professionals." Natasha smiled fondly at him. "So when did you get together? And why didn't you tell me?"

"... Nat, we're not together. I think I may have wanted to for a long time, but it never occurred to me that I did until... you know, until Coulson was dead."

When Natasha smacked the back of his head, Clint supposed he deserved it. "I don't want to believe the words coming out of your mouth," she said, "but your face doesn't lie. How have you worked together with all that sexual tension for so many years and _not_ done anything about it yet?"

"He kissed me." Clint rubbed the back of his neck, over where Coulson's lips had been, and thought about the feeling that had followed.

"When did this happen? Why haven't I heard about it? You tell me _everything_ , and sometimes it's incredibly aggravating, but this is one situation in which it would have been all right to say something."

"When I was at the hospital last week," Clint replied. "But nothing's happened since then." The moment of silence that followed his admission felt oppressive. He eyed the distance from his seat to the door and calculated how long it would take him to make an escape. It would never work; Nat was just too fast.

She crossed her arms and stared at him. "Well, go make something happen. I'm sure Coulson is still in his office. He missed two weeks of work; he's going to insist on catching up."

"What if he's not? What if it was the medication? Or he's changed his mind?"

"Those are all terrible excuses. Go; I'll take care of this. You have years of frustration to work out." Natasha practically shoved Clint at the door, tossing his keys and phone after him. "Don't come back until you've done something about it."

Clint sighed and made his way to Coulson's office. He peered around the door and walked in, standing in front of the desk. He stayed quiet and watched Coulson fill out reports. Several minutes passed slowly, and still Coulson didn't look up. Clint was sure Coulson had noticed him come in, and he was starting to wonder why he hadn't yet been acknowledged.

He had just opened his mouth to say something when Coulson said, "I suppose coffee in the morning was too long a wait," without missing a word of what he was writing. Clint just stared at him for a moment.

"Something like that, yeah," Clint admitted. "Are you almost done?"

"Does the stack of reports look finished?"

Clint sighed and barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Can I convince you to stop for the night, then?"

Coulson finally looked up after signing his name on a report. His expression was too hard to read; Clint couldn't tell if Coulson was going to tell him off or laugh. Finally, he set the pen down and smiled. "I could use a break, I think."

"Well," Clint said, "I do know a place that makes really good pancakes. I did kind of just eat Thai though, so we might have to wait on that."

Coulson laughed, soft and low. "What did you have in mind for the next few hours, then?"

Clint shifted, fishing for an answer before he opened his mouth. "I hadn't quite thought that far ahead, sir," he finally said.

"I'm not surprised. Natasha put you up to this, didn't she?"

It was Clint's turn to laugh. "How do you know?"

Coulson set the file aside and stood up. "You rarely eat take-away otherwise, unless we're in the field, and your typical meal out is the diner—I suppose the one that makes good pancakes."

"Any other habits of mine that you're intimately familiar with, boss?"

As soon as he said it, Clint regretted his word choice. The question hung in the air between them awkwardly for a moment, until Coulson answered him. "I am aware that you prefer to put your tension into your archery, as evidenced by the number of hours you have logged at the range in your downtime. I also know that, especially recently, you haven't been sleeping well, but I don't know the pattern for that or when it started."

Clint looked at Coulson, not sure what to say to that. He'd always thought he was better at hiding his insomnia. "It started a little over four years ago, after you yelled at me for almost dying in Budapest," he finally admitted. "But I'm not going to stop doing stupid shit that gets the job done just because I'm afraid of disappointing you."

"I expect nothing less from you," Coulson said, coming around the desk. He stopped in front of Clint and gave him an appraising look. "While we wait on your pancakes, why don't we get out of here?"

Clint eyed Coulson warily. "And go where? I live here. I was pretty sure you did, too."

"I live in Brooklyn," Coulson said, gathering a few files into a neat stack.

"You and two-point-five million other people," Clint grumbled. Coulson ignored it, so Clint tried a different approach. "So let's go to yours," he said. "We could watch a terrible action film or something."

"Or something," Coulson agreed and gestured towards the door. Clint stepped out of the office, suddenly nervous, and walked beside Coulson to the parking garage. They settled into the car before Clint had another thought.

"Where in Brooklyn do you live, anyway?"

Coulson turned and looked at him, starting the car. "I live in Kensington. Fairly close to the F line, or if you don't mind walking a bit further, you can take the Q. You have easily-accessible escape routes."

Clint thought about that for a minute. "That actually makes sense. You kind of seem like you'd like living in Park Slope, but that shit is too expensive for a single fed. But Kensington, you get the same kind of feel, without the ridiculous mortgage." He appreciated Coulson's acknowledgement of Clint's concerns about having an escape route, but he felt it would be inappropriate to say so outright.

"I suppose that is an acceptable line of reason."

Clint laughed again. "Yeah, okay. Take me home already, will you?" The silence that followed was at least as awkward as the one was earlier, and Clint mentally cursed himself for poor word choices. "I mean—uh."

"You're going to keep unintentionally saying things that could be taken in a number of ways, aren't you?"

"Probably," Clint agreed.

Coulson made a soft humming noise, and a mostly-comfortable silence filled the drive after that. Clint stared out the window and at Coulson alternately. He couldn't decide how this was going so far, but he hoped well and wondered what they were going to do when they arrived.

 

Clint followed Coulson up the steps of his house, still not sure if this was a good idea or a terrible one. He looked around the living room, a bit perplexed. "How the hell did you end up living in a place like this all by yourself?" he asked before he could stop himself. "I meant, so what now?"

"It's been in my family," Coulson shrugged. "Die Hard is always an option. Take a seat. I'll be right back." He headed up the stairs, and Clint could hear his steps through the ceiling above him.

Clint sat down and took off his shoes. "Die Hard, really?" he called. "Surely you didn't take my suggestion seriously?"

"Do you have something better in mind?" Coulson's voice was close behind him again. Clint barely managed to not jump. He stood up and turned around, and his mouth went dry. Coulson had put on jeans and a sweater, and he looked damn good in it.

"I... " Clint licked his lips and felt his face flush. "I might have a few ideas, but I don't know how much better they are."

"Isn't it traditional to buy me dinner first?"

Clint stared at Coulson for a long moment before he realised it was a joke. "If you want to use that logic, we've bought each other dinner dozens of times in the field, so we're way overdue." He hadn't meant it seriously, but Coulson's expression changed and the air in the room seemed to crackle.

"You have a fair point," Coulson said and tucked his hands into his pockets like he was waiting for Clint to make the first move. Or perhaps it was the next move in their not-quite-courtship.

Clint made his way around the couch slowly. "Can we try this thing again?" he asked, stopping in front of Coulson. "You know, the kissing thing? Maybe this time your nurse won't just assume we're boyfriends."

"She made the same assumption when you were in the coma. The kissing has nothing to do with it."

"We had the same nurse? And she's thought we’ve been dating for four years?"

"Yes; she's been working for SHIELD for some time, and she's not the only person who has made that assumption in the past."

Clint uncurled his fingers at his sides. "Who else has? Why didn't anyone tell me about you until after everything was over? You know what? I don't even care." He grabbed a handful of Coulson's sweater and kissed him. Coulson kissed as well as he did everything else, but he was all gentleness and well-restrained passion in the moment, and that pissed Clint off. He ground out, "Is that all you've got?"

He guessed he was asking for it when Coulson pushed him back against the wall and kissed him again with much less restraint. He ground his hips against Clint's and dipped his head to kiss Clint's neck. "Do you really want all I've got?"

"Bite me," Clint snapped. He whined, high and breathless, when Coulson did as asked, teeth scraping already-sensitive skin. "I didn't mean—literally—," he gasped, still hanging onto Coulson's sweater.

"Shall we head upstairs, then?" Coulson's voice was oddly quiet. He didn't wait for an answer, choosing instead to start up the stairs without Clint. Clint caught his feet and followed Coulson, nervous and thrilled.

 

He didn't remember falling asleep, but when he woke it was already light outside and he could hear voices coming from downstairs. He pulled on his jeans and started for the stairs to find out what was going on, but a little more than halfway down he stopped. He recognised Fury's voice anywhere.

"... So you've finally decided to take that next step. That's been a long time coming. I trust you've given this enough thought, and I expect that paperwork on my desk in the morning."

"Yes, sir." Coulson almost sounded nervous, but Clint didn't think that was actually possible, so he decided that he had misheard.

Clint heard the sound of a coffee cup being set on the counter. By the time he registered that that meant that Fury was leaving, the director was already passing the stairs on his way out. "Agent Barton," he said, and it looked like he turned around and _winked_ at Coulson. "Take the day off, Phil. Maybe tomorrow, too."

Clint turned and walked down the hall, through the dining room-turned-office until he found the kitchen. Coulson was leaning on the counter, the newspaper opened to the crossword. "Do you regularly get visits from him at... 6:30 on Sunday mornings?"

"Good morning to you, too," Coulson said. "Director Fury came by to deliver some papers. The coffee cups are in the cabinet above the coffeepot. If you still want those pancakes, then we can go and get some breakfast as soon as you've dressed."

Clint poured a cup of coffee and drank half of it. "Did Fury really wink at you on his way out? Is he one of the people who apparently assumes we've been together for years?"

"Yes, on both accounts," Coulson said. "Do you want them to all continue assuming, or would you be interested in signing this paperwork that will make them all right?"

"What?"

"It seems that your good friend Ms Romanov paid Director Fury a visit late last night and informed him of some interesting things. Apparently our assumed courtship was a sham and we have to sign forms concerning our fraternisation. There are none of those in either of our files. I do believe those were his words." Coulson offered Clint a pen and the paper. "You don't have to sign them if you don't want to, but if this is something you'd want to continue, you should. Do you still want pancakes?"

"Can we skip the paperwork for now and get straight to the pancakes?" Clint set the papers down as soon as he took them.

Coulson sighed. "Put on your shirt, and we'll go." He looked mildly disappointed that Clint was avoiding signing anything.

Clint took a step closer to Coulson. "It's not that I don't want this. It's just way too early to read tiny print, and I don't want to ruin my amazing mood with eyestrain."

Coulson reached up and lightly touched the mark on Clint's neck. "Shirt, Barton. We have a breakfast appointment to keep, and I don't appreciate tardiness. We have a lot to discuss."


End file.
